Danger to the Reich
by Nixxie-the-Lizard
Summary: AU - very AU  Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley are three adolescents in the worst time of muggle history. The Holocaust.
1. Chapter 1

Scene –

Dinner at the Potter household was going as usual, happy chatter and the clink of silverware against fine china. Three people sat around a table, two adults, one a teenager. The teen had the same scruffy black hair as the man sitting in front of him, so presumably this man was his father. The woman had striking red hair and deep green eyes, the same as the boy's.

James, the father, looked lovingly at his wife and son. He was so proud of them, and after that terrible night last year, when all the Jewish façades and synagogues had burned and been vandalized (known to all of Germany as Krystallnacht), he had every right to be. Lily, his dear Lily had rushed into the closest shop – once owned by an odd old man – as soon as the SS had turned the corner after their raid, and pulled out as much of the holy book she knew to be there as she could. Albeit, this wasn't a lot, it had been burnt terribly, only a small portion of the scroll was salvageable.

And his son, Harry, had done much that night as well. While he didn't run into a still burning building to save a sacred scroll, he did take a little Jewish girl and turn her tears of fear and sadness into tears of laughter. She was the daughter of a Rabbi who had gone missing the week before. The sight of her father's house of worship sent her into near hysterics. Harry had taken her away from the burning building and told her stories of her father, how he was laughing at the officers because they did not know that by burning the synagogue, they were showing Yawe how insignificant walls could be. Her tears had turned into giggles at that. James was proud to be Harry's father and certain that he would grow into a fine man.

The meal and happiness was cut short as the front door crashed in. James and Lily grabbed each other's hand and stood from the table, blocking Harry from view as a gaunt, tall man in the uniform of a general strode into the room. He was followed by men in the now familiar black uniform of the SS.

The general stood a head taller than James and emanated an aura of evil and power. James squeezed Lily's hand; a small reassurance in the face of this crisis. When the general spoke, his voice was high and reedy.

"I am General Riddle, and it has come to my attention that you, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, have been involved in activities that are dangerous to the Reich."

James said nothing.

Riddle smirked. "As you are not denying these allegations, it will be my," He paused, smiling and oddly snake-like, "pleasure to carry out the punishment for treason." He reached languidly to his belt, where the shiny butt of a gun was visible from a holster.

"And what of our son? Are you to let him watch our deaths?" Lily asked defiantly. Harry stiffened at these words. Surely there was another punishment?

Riddle leaned towards an officer who whispered a few words into his ear.

"Your son will be placed with a proper family. He has not been sighted doing anything near as compromising as you lot have."

Lily nodded. "Then take him before we die. He does not deserve to see this."

Harry jumped up. "No, mum, I won't go!"

Riddle laughed. "See, my dear? He wants to see the traitor's receive due punishment."

Before Harry could respond, Riddle had the gun at his father's forehead. James stood tall, squeezing Lily's hand and staring doggedly into the eyes of his executioner. Riddle narrowed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

"NO!" Harry ran to his fallen father, only to be restrained by two officers, and then three as his mother turned to face the muzzle of the gun. Tears streamed from her large green eyes, but no emotion could be read on her face.

The general cocked the gun and time slowed for Harry. Each strained breath his captors took echoed in his ears, his own heart thudded painfully in his chest. He locked eyes with his mother, he saw her smile, he almost didn't hear the click, boom of the gun. Harry watched in complete terror as his mother fell to her knees, with a small black hole in her forehead, and then to the ground completely.

Riddle replaced his gun and began to walk to the door. "Malfoy."

The officer who had whispered Harry's fate into the general's ear perked up. "Sir."

"Take the boy to the Dursleys. They will beat the resistance out of him. If not…"

The man named Malfoy nodded curtly. "He will be taken immediately. I shall inspect the boy myself on a biweekly basis to assess his progress, Sir."

The general smiled; it sent shivers down Harry's seemingly numb body. "Good. Now, I must leave. Take care of the garbage, will you?" The door closed moments later, and an engine roared to life outside the house.

"Come on, then, boy," Malfoy ordered. "Time to meet your new family."

Scene –

Vernon Dursley, as large a man as Harry had ever seen, closed the door gently behind the retreating form of Colonel Malfoy. His meaty jowls shook slightly as he turned to face his new ward.

"I say that man should be promoted, don't you… Harold, is it?"

Harry stared past Vernon's head. He did not respond to the man at all that night, prompting Vernon's son, Dudley, to remark that he was probably 'one of those dumbs.' Vernon eventually agreed. He told his lanky wife to deposit the new one in the old guest room. She pouted, but led Harry to the room.

"You'll sleep here, boy. Breakfast is at 6AM, sharp. If you aren't there, I'll have Dudley teach you about tardiness."

Harry stared blankly at the floor in response. Petunia crossed her arms and hurried from the room. As the door shut, Harry sank to the carpet and held his face in his hands. What would he do now?

The hours passed like minutes that night. Harry couldn't sleep; he didn't even want to try. Not in such a new environment, not without the knowledge that his parents were down the hall, breathing and dreaming. What he did want was to go back home and curl up on his mother's side of his parents' bed and cry. He was thirteen; it was still acceptable for a boy that age to cry, if only in privacy.

Light slowly filtered into the room as the sun crept above the horizon. Harry was awake, sitting on the corner of the bed, staring at the wall. He did not know the time, but in somewhere in his head he knew he should find his way to the table. His parents did not die just to watch him receive a beating for tardiness from their lofty new positions in heaven. So he dragged himself to the door and opened it, his feet and heart getting heavier with each step he took.

The dining room was just down the hall. Vernon and Dudley were already sitting at the table while Petunia flitted around the adjoining kitchen. Hearing her son and husband quiet, she poked her head out the window.

"There you are!" She glared down her nose at Harry. "Almost late, you were. You watch yourself."

Harry stood near Dudley, not knowing and not caring where he sat. Vernon pointed at the far end of the table.

"You'll sit there, boy. Dudley doesn't want you near him; he thinks your dumb could be catching." Vernon had the grace to look disgusted, though for Harry's sake or Dudley's is uncertain.

Harry took his seat and stared down at his plate. It was a far cry from the china he dined from not two days ago. Petunia triumphantly strode into the dining room and heaped her husband and sons' plates with bacon, eggs, sausages and gravy. She dropped two pieces of bacon, one egg, and a small link on her own plate, and gave Harry the burnt remains of a sausage and bacon. Only two pieces of food, though Harry didn't care. The smell of breakfast was making his stomach churn; he didn't think he could eat anything, burnt or not.

He toyed with the sausage on his plate absently, memories floating through his head. The conversation of the family sharing a meal with him was not heard. Harry eventually miserably ate the measly food doled to him after Dudley threw a stale muffin at him for being ungrateful.

Most meals went like this for Harry. He would lose himself in the memory of his mother cooking, baking, laughing; and for his dull attitude he would be rewarded with either a stale roll or perhaps a fork thrown at his head.

The days were blurring together for Harry. Each night he got a meager two or three hours of sleep. He wished he could have blackness behind his eyelids instead of his father collapsing or his mother crying silently with a hole between her eyes when he tried to rest.

Dudley took to boasting to his friends about Harry. He even dragged Harry by the arm to the front yard and showing off how unresponsive he was. Sticks, dirt, glass, and rocks were thrown at him to see if he would do anything. The boys always got the same dead look from Harry, as if nothing they could do would top what he had already been through. Dudley took the look as a challenge, so his friends did as well and upped the ante. Words too were thrown at Harry.

On a day like this, one of the boys went up to Harry and prodded his chest.

"Hello, Potter."

Harry stared at the cold ground.

"I think you can be great."

From the sound of this boy's voice, Harry didn't want to know what 'great' was. He wanted to go back to the room and ignore the Dursleys forever.

"Seeing as your father was defiant until the end, and you hold his stubbornness, I think you should come to the academy with me; well, my father does. I think you should be a shoe shiner for us. But father wants you to become a member of the Youth."

Harry's eyes shot to the boy's in front of him. Steel grey. Cold. Familiar.

"I'm Draco Malfoy. My father told me about you, and I think-"

"Malfoy?"

Draco grinned cockily. "Yes. Draco Mal-"

"Your father stood by and watched as my parents were killed." Ice dripped from Harry's words, chilling the circle of boys. Except Draco, who was appalled; he was never interrupted, and now, twice in a row!

"What of it? They were traitors to the Reich. Every traitor deserves death!" Despite the confidence in his voice, Draco began to back away from Harry, who was visibly shaking as he neared the Youth.

"No. They. Didn't." Harry jumped on Draco, pushing him to the ground, punching every part of him he could reach. Draco kicked and punched back, but this didn't deter Harry. Blind with tears and rage, he didn't notice Dudley coming up behind him. Dudley yanked Harry off the beaten blond. Harry struggled, hitting Dudley quite a few times in the face before Dudley cracked a fist to the back of Harry's head, almost knocking him out. Through lenses that had shattered in the tussle, he watched Draco stumble to his feet.

"You'll pay for this, Potter. You just wait. When my father hears of this -"

Harry spat out blood. "You're father is nothing but a puppet."

Draco grimaced and forced a bleeding fist into Harry's abdomen. He had no fear of repercussion; Dudley was holding Harry quite still. "Just wait."

Draco and two others stalked off, Draco limping heavily. Dudley and Harry watched their progress for a few moments before Harry was dumped unceremoniously to the ground. He looked back up at Dudley in mild surprise. Dudley had a quizzical look on his round face.

"I didn't know you could talk."

Scene –

Harry glared sullenly at the blond in the Youth uniform and his father in a new general uniform. Draco was smiling and waving cheerily at the crowded platform. The people, including Harry, were being shoved into train boxes headed for certain doom, and they knew it. Before losing sight of the sky, Harry asked a tired looking officer, "Where are we being taken?"

The man glanced at Harry briefly before answering. "Dachau." He pushed Harry into the over-crowded box car and shut the door, sliding the bolt into place.

Unable to move, Harry looked to the dark ceiling of his temporary prison. He wished his mother were there to tell him all would turn out right.

The train stuttered to life, and Harry could only wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Scene –

Harry was glad to stretch his muscles after that horrible ride. He was less pleased to have to strip down and be judged by a man in a long coat as he walked past. He was sorted into the left line. He followed the man in front of him into an imposing building. The door slid shut behind him and a rough voice ordered the men to stand still or be shot.

Scalding hot water poured onto them with no warning. Harry bit his lip to keep from shouting out, while others screamed in shock and pain. As quickly as the water cascaded upon them, it stopped. The same rough voice, now filled with ill mirth, told the men to say goodbye to any hair they had.

Harry stood in front of a man who wore a mask and gloves. The man held a pair of sheers coated in rust. "Don't move; it'll hurt more, little boy." Harry gulped as chunks of his hair rained down before his eyes. A few nicks and scrapes later, the man crouched. "Just starting to be a man, eh?" Harry gasped and squeezed his eyes shut as the sheers began snipping at the delicate hairs below his navel.

Bald, bleeding, and scared beyond anything he had ever felt before, Harry made his way to another building. Upon entering, he was grabbed by a hideous man holding some sort of needle. "Forget your name, kid. It's this number now." Tears pricked Harry's eyes as the needle drilled ink into the delicate flesh of his wrist.

Now he had to run. If he passed this test, he would live. Harry ran and imagined he was running from this horrible place, this hell called Dachau.

Finally Harry had a stained and torn uniform thrust into his weak arms. He pulled the top over his head, feeling the coarse fabric chafe across his sensitive skin. The pants, he found, were too short, even for his stature. A shadow fell across his path and he looked up meekly.

An older man glared down his crooked nose at the boy. His uniform was less ragged than Harry's, though no less stained. From what Harry could see, the man would have black hair were he not shaven. "Come with me," the man had a deep and aloof voice.

Following this man led Harry to a set of barracks. The man pointed to one and said, "That will be your living quarters from now until you are transferred. I would talk to the old man in the back; he will tell you everything I don't want to." With that, the man stalked off, leaving Harry alone in front of the dank buildings. Gulping, Harry convinced his feet to move forward.

The barrack was dim and smelled terrible. Harry kept walking to what he assumed was the back of the barrack, jumping slightly when he heard a cough or saw a pair of hollowed eyes staring at him. At the back wall there were two columns of beds. On the first one he saw, there was a lump under a thin blanket with a pale patch of skin peaking out. Unsure of what to do, Harry stood next to the bunk, waiting for the person to move.

The voice of an old man startled Harry. "You can sit next to me, if you want." Harry turned and sure enough, an old man with shockingly blue eyes was sitting and looking expectantly at him.

"Uh… Sure?" Harry cautiously sat down on the bunk next to the old man. "Are you who that man told me to talk to?"

The old man's blue eyes twinkled. "You mean Severus, and yes, I am. My name is Albus Dumbledore." Harry felt for some reason safer when the man talked to him.

"I'm Harry Potter," he said. "Why are you here? Where is here, anyway?"

Dumbledore smiled kindly at Harry. "Hello, Harry. I'm here in Dachau because I follow the faith of the Torah; I am a Jew."

Harry looked at Dumbledore more closely. Blue eyes were uncommon in Jews, if the posters were any where near correct, and the man's nose was long and crooked, broken before he assumed, but not shaped like a six. "If you don't mind me saying, you don't look Jewish at all."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I wasn't born into a Jewish family, Harry. I converted to this faith ten years ago." At Harry's confused face, he continued. "I had a very close friend… He disappeared very soon after the Führer came into power… but he was a Jew, and I respected him very much. He taught me to read Hebrew, he taught me the scriptures, and I felt the word of God course through me, and I told Gellert that I wanted to convert. He took me to his synagogue and I became a Jew."

Harry leaned back; he was impressed at the power of friendship and religion. "And as for your other question, Harry, we are in Dachau, one of the first labour camps that the Führer commissioned. If I am correct, we are just outside of Munich."

Harry's eyes widened. If they were near Munich, he had been transported more than one hundred miles from his home, from his parents'. It had been three months since their murders, and though the pain was still there, Harry no longer cried when he thought of them. Not much, at least.

Loud buzzing shocked Harry from his reverie. "Well, Harry," Dumbledore said, clapping his hands. "It's time for us to try to sleep, though how those men think we can sleep without anything less than straw is beyond me. You can bunk above me, the man before you left this morning."

Harry stood and looked at his new friend. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Harry. And don't itch too much, it draws the mites out." Dumbledore turned over and began snoring. Harry smiled; a small but real smile and climbed to the bunk allotted to him and shut his eyes, suddenly not so worried about the future.


End file.
